


Words (overrated & underused)

by Anonymous



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Minor Emori/John Murphy (The 100), Minor Monty Green/Harper McIntyre, Miscommunication, flatmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 20:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Octavia tells Bellamy she’ll be staying on abroad an extra semester, it doesn’t immediately register that he’ll need to find someone to sublet his sister’s room. Living with a stranger, it turns out, is notthateasy.





	Words (overrated & underused)

*** * ***

“Echo? I’m so sorry.”

“You’re late, Blake.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,”—Bellamy hazards a glance over his shoulder, moving between her and the door— “I couldn’t get away from this thing that was supposed”—he flares his nostrils at the resistance of the lock— “end hours ago, but...”

Murphy’s Law in full swing today it seems, but he’s not about to be defeated by the front door. It’s been four months since Volkov promised to fix the lock, but money will grow on trees long before the man does good on it.

“Here,”—Echo’s wet hands are wrapped around his, her breath warm on his cheek— “Let me…”

Bellamy steps back, giving her control. It gives him the chance to get a good close look at her. Rainwater beads across her face, the bottom edge of soulful eyes heavily accented by smeared makeup. There’s a fullness to her lips he noticed in her user pic and which look infinitely more pillowy in 3D. She bites on them as she shoulders open the door, all but stumbling into the front hall.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” he chuckles, stepping inside after her. They’re tracking so much rainwater it takes no time for there to be a substantial puddle spreading across the marble floor.

“I’m really sorry about all this, Echo. Thank you for waiting.” It’s Bellamy’s turn to be subjected to an appraisal. He self-consciously rakes his curls back, offering her a smile as he steps past. “It’s just up these stairs,” he indicates, twirling his keys around the index finger of his outstretched hand.

“You said it was on the first floor?”

“Yeah, but the windows are double-glazed so there’s no sound from below,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. He’s taken aback by how easily she keeps up, realising belatedly they’re practically the same height.

“Neighbours upstairs?”

“Quiet. Mr Miller’s retired and travels a lot. His son’s a friend, just moved to South Africa last month, so… yeah. Yeah, no it’s a pretty good crowd. You, uh, new to the city, or you’re just…”

“Yes, no. Lease was up on my old place and I want to save up for a car so,”—Echo replies, stopping short of the apartment’s front door— “I figured sharing a place would cost less, and it’s closer to work so…”

Bellamy’s glad the apartment door doesn’t put up a fight. He unlocks it and steps in first, flicking on the hallway light as he holds it open for her.

“The room’s free until June,” he begins, reiterating what he’d said in the mail last week. “I used to live with my sister but she’s travelling, so until she comes back I need someone to cover half the lease. You said you weren’t too sure how long you’d be staying…?”

“No later than June, for sure,” Echo responds, distracted.

Bellamy senses she’s got somewhere to be, “I’ll show you the room. It’s just down here,”—the hallway leads to the living room— “I’m on this side,”—he motions to the closed door, and then to an exact one opposite— “And that’s you, if you know, you take it. The kitchen’s back here and the bathroom’s down that way. It’s shared.”

“And rent, remind me?”

“Listed amount, due on the 25th of every month. Bills split monthly, usually no more than $100 each, $150 including heating once November comes around. Internet’s unlimited, but no cable. Bond is a month’s worth, paid upfront with the first month.”

“Contract?”

“Will have to draw something up. It’s a sublease, but general rules apply. No pets allowed in the building, quiet hours 10-7, uh,”

“—The usual,” Echo interjects, stepping out the room. Bellamy nods, eyeing her. They haven’t shared much about one another, and the way she’s dressed doesn’t give him any clues whatsoever as to her job.

“You said your work was close? What is it you do?”

Echo doesn’t look like she’ll murder him in his sleep or disappear into the night with his furniture, but Bellamy’s got to make sure he’s not letting just anyone live with him. The last two people he showed the place to were, for a lack of a better word, odd.

“Paralegal,” she replies, folding her arms as she leans against the doorframe.

Bellamy whistles, “And you’re trying to save on rent?”

“You don’t know what kind of car I’m looking to buy,” she retorts.

He smiles, acquiescing.

“I can draw something up and swing by later this week. I’m looking to move in no later than this weekend if that’s okay?”

Bellamy smiles at the first good news he’s had all day.

*** * ***

Living with a stranger has its memorable moments. Echo’s lived alone for so long that she forgets to lock doors, and Bellamy’s so accustomed to picking up after his sister that he doesn’t think twice about throwing Echo’s clothes in with his (and inevitably ruining some dry cleaner’s only shirts).

The boundary-setting process takes less than two weeks however. Much like Octavia, his new flatmate’s not one to beat around the bush when she doesn’t like something. The directness with which Echo expresses herself however is seldom tinged with sentiment. At first he wonders whether her legal background is what makes speaking directly so easy for her, but eventually he stops analysing and begins to mirror her instead. Things improve significantly.

*** * ***

It’s rare for them to be both home on a Friday night. Bellamy steps out of the bathroom, fully expecting her to be at work late per usual, but is instead he’s greeted by the familiar smell of fast food.

Rounding the corner into the living room, he clicks his tongue as he pulls his sleep shirt over his head, “And here I thought you were trying to save for a car, not keep UberEats from going under.”

Echo replies by raising her middle finger at him and not looking back. He steps into the open-plan kitchen and fishes a beer out from the fridge, sporting a smile. He glances towards the living room, past the back of her head to the television screen. Whatever it is, it’s on mute, though her usual piles of papers are out of sight. Not a work night, then. Instead of depositions, she’s setting out practically every item off the dollar menu across the coffee table. If he hadn’t caught her returning from late night jogs or her excursions to the gym he’d start worrying about her health.

“Hey. There’s a new Star Trek episode up I wanted to watch on there, you mind?”

“Keep you from nerd-ery not I will,” she replies, her voice almost drowned out by the sound of unwrapping. The crinkling stops and she shoots him a glance over her shoulder. “And if you point out one more time that that’s Star Wars I will shove this big mac so far up your ass you’ll be tasting McD’s until Christmas.”

Bellamy shakes his head before taking a swig of his drink, “Kinky.”

When she flips him off one more time, he stifles his grin with another long swig.

*** * ***

Bellamy knocks twice and waits.

“Echo?”

He knocks once more, waits, then tries the lock. He pushes the door open enough to pop his head in and take stock of the room. At the centre of the bed he spies a mess of quilts and a disgusting collection of tissues.

“Earth to Echo. You dead?”

If she weren’t glaring at him through red-rimmed eyes and two days worth of unwashed hair over the edge of the comforter, then the pillow launched in his direction would have most likely struck him right in the face.

“Not dead, duly noted. Try to stay that way, yeah?”—Bellamy steps into the room, scratching at his jaw. This isn’t Octavia. He’s got to reason to coddle her the way he would his sister, but the thought of leaving for a long weekend when she’s been bed-ridden the last three days makes him anxious— “Raven said she’d drop in tomorrow. The Greens are in all weekend and Harper said she’d check in on you too. Okay?”

Bellamy doesn’t understand the mumbled response, and hesitates at the door. The mugs on her night-table catch his attention, giving him an excuse to step inside and get a better look. If she looks worse than yesterday, then…

“You know… with that virus of yours there’s really no need to start cultivating bacteria,” he chides, picking up the mugs from her bedside table. As he does this, he glances down at her. It’s the first time that he’s seen Echo under the weather and he’s not sure what to make of it. It’s that time of the year though, that final stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas when everyone is sick.

“Leave my bact”—the word gets stuck in her throat.

The roughness of her cough makes his skin crawl. He’s no doctor, but it doesn’t sound  like it’s getting better. He thinks back to his conversation with Monty last night. Maybe it’s not a virus at all.

Bellamy takes the hint when she doesn’t try to finish her sentence. He watches her burrow into the covers and then moves towards the door, three mugs in hand. It’s a miracle he doesn’t spill their contents on his wrist when startled by the slam of the front door.

“Yo snotapalooza, where you at!?”

“Murphy? The fuck….?”

“You still here? Thought you were doing,”—John throws his jacket over the back of the couch and motions intelligibly— “smart people things”—then glances over his shoulder to where Bellamy’s staring. “Right. This is my girlfriend, Emori. Babe, this is Bellamy,”—he motions between them, leaning against the back of the couch.

Bellamy nods towards Emori, offering her a smile, then glances back at John expectantly, “I don’t remember giving you a key, Murphy. What are you doing here?”

“Echo did,”—John motions for Emori’s coat and sets it over his own on the couch— “Said I had first dibs on all her stuff when she died. Sounded like shit on the phone,”—he glances in the direction of her room— “She better?”

“I”—Bellamy starts, then stops, visibly flustered. He moves to set the mugs down on the kitchen island, and then glances between the newcomers, hands on his hips. “I don’t think know. I was going to ask Harper to come check on her when I left, but…”

“Which is when, exactly?”

“You eager for me to leave, Murphy?”

“I can have a look,” Emori offers, flashing Bellamy a smile. It’s tactical and clearly meant to de-escalate whatever this is. “I used to be a pre-med,” she adds, bracelets jangling when she reaches to push her hair over her shoulder.

“If you think it’ll help,” Bellamy replies, uncertain what to think of this. He glances towards John, eyebrow arched. Why the hell would Echo give him a key?

“Relax, dude, that’s what we’re here for. We’ll take care of the snotzilla, you just go do your…”—“Seminar,” Bellamy offers impassively— “Yes, seminar thing. You weren’t meant to still be here. Raven said your train left at two.”

“Five,” Bellamy counters, glancing towards Emori. He motions silently with his head towards Echo’s room, then looks at his watch. “Yeah, I’m still going ask Harper to come over though. I wouldn’t trust you with a plant, let alone a friend.”

“Hey, she’s our friend too,” Emori interjects, fixing him a look.

“Right, yes. Still,” Bellamy glances down at his watch, abashed. His anxiety over Echo and his annoyance at her giving John a key is doing him no favours in terms of first impressions. Though he wonders, being John’s girlfriend, how much she’s already heard about him. “I’ll stop at the Greens before leaving.”

“Yeah, you do that. You already packed?

Bellamy nods, slipping his hands from his hips to his front pockets. Echo once told him that hiding one’s hands was something people did when they were keeping secrets. Truth is he’s been ready to go since late morning, his blazer and coat laid out on the bed by his duffel bag.

Raven was right. He was meant to be on the two o’clock, and if John hadn’t shown up he’d likely have missed the five o’clock train too.

*** * ***

There’s a question that lingers at the forefront of his mind all weekend, and when Bellamy returns Monday evening it inevitably rolls off his tongue unbidden.

“Why d’you give Murphy a key to the apartment?”

Echo glances towards him over the back of the couch.

He holds her stare, glancing down once to lower the heat as the soup begins to bubble. Monty’s dropped off medication for pneumonia and indicated it shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach. Empty stomachs are why Bellamy’s standing at the stove reheating a box of mushroom soup. That, and the fact that he can’t trust Echo with the simplest of culinary tasks.

(Five weeks ago Bellamy learned why Echo never bothered to cook. In four years of living in this building, he’s never had issues. But on her first attempt at scrambled eggs she’s lured the firefighters into the apartment. Two weeks ago, he delegated potato peeling and ended up bandaging the bloodied length of her thumb.)

Echo realises he’s expecting an answer and points out the obvious, “He works with me.”

Bellamy has learned that despite her candour, there’s often multiple points she leaves out. It isn’t easy being as unobservant as she is. He’s on his second PhD and yet she sometimes manages to make him feel like a fool. (It’s worse when Raven’s around, the two of them on an entirely different wavelength. Once he was tempted to point out that the engineer was his friend long before she moved in.) Her inability to handle the most basic home skills soothes his ego just enough to make it bearable.

Echo has caught on though. Whenever her statements are followed by long silences and expectant looks, she’s prompted to explain herself further. Her clarifications are often vocalised while sporting a hawk-like gaze. Those soulful brown eyes burrow into him and  it makes disenchantment look sexy. (It’s fucked up, really.)

“Sometimes I need him to pick something up or he needs to catch up on sleep between depositions. Why?”

“I just wish you’d told me,”—he watches the wooden spoon as he stirs, brow furrowing— “Does anyone else have the key?”

Her silence draws his gaze, expression darkening.

“Yes,” she replies, offering nothing more. Bellamy sets the pot onto another burner and turns the gas off. Waiting for Echo to explain herself is one thing, but extracting information from her is like pulling teeth from a sleeping shark’s mouth. It requires his full attention, especially when he’s started to pick up on her tells.

Stepping away from the stove and rounding the kitchen island, he folds his arms and leans into the back of the couch. “You going to tell me, or are we going to do this the hard way?”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child. I’m not your sister,” Echo snaps.

“Well, you insist on acting like one… I don’t want people I don’t know having access to this apartment, especially not once my sister is back. You’ll be gone by then, but what about the people who have keys? How do I know they won’t make copies, huh? Who else did you give a key to?”

Bellamy catches the tail-end of something he cannot explain. This past month has been a steep learning curve of all things Echo, but he’s barely scratched the surface. He’s let her into his life, introduced him to his friends, and yet there’s a part of him that still can’t trust her. There’s something unnatural about the progression from acquaintance to friendship when you’ve witnessed certain types of intimacy.

“Harper, Monty. Raven—”

“I know my friends have keys. Who else?”

Again, another shift in her expression.

At the back of his mind, he’s keeping a tally, though of what, he doesn’t know.

“Roan. Ontari. Niylah.”

“These people you work with too? Does everyone at your job have access to this apartment?” Bellamy pushes himself off the couch when she doesn’t answer, her silence as close to an affirmation as he’ll get. “Jesus fucking christ, Echo. Were you planning on telling me? How many people have come and gone?”

“I didn’t see the point. It’sno—” she stumbles, gasping for breath before coughing.

The fit starts and stops, her breathing shallow. He watches as she sits up to reach for the glass of water on the coffee table. With her back turned to him, she attempts to drown the itch. Glass emptied she stands, swaying slightly before finding her balance. Bellamy tightens his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching for her, frustration mounting. This isn’t the time for his resolve to break. This is a conversation they’re having whether she likes it or not.

“You didn’t see the point,”—he cuts himself off and breathes in an attempt to reel his anger in. This—whatever it is—has been bubbling under his skin since Friday afternoon. “Fucking hell, Echo. You don’t think that, maybe, you should check on these things with me first? Or at least have the fucking decency to give me a head’s up?”

Echo doesn’t even look at him, focused entirely on refilling her glass. If her silence didn’t drive him up the wall, then he wouldn’t be staring up at the ceiling with his hands in his hair. And if he wasn’t staring at the ceiling then he might notice the difficulty she’s having in completing the simple task.

Bellamy glances towards her when he hears the rattle of pills. Immediately he catches on—she’s retreating. This isn’t a conversation she can walk away from, though the timing clearly isn’t working in either of their favours.

He follows her with his eyes as he speaks, “Wait. Monty said you needed food first.”

Echo doesn’t reply or react, her steps slow but steadfast.

“Soup’s ready, Echo. Come have som—” Bellamy watches her disappear behind a closing door and his words die on his lips with a sigh. The silence treatments he’s familiar with are punctuated by slamming doors and a presence that demands to be felt. Octavia’s defiance is loud; his grip on her falters because she burns hotter than fire. Echo is the opposite though, elusive and intangible, slipping through his fingers as he grasps air. Her exit is marked by the soft click of the lock sliding into place. It’s anticlimactic.

Raising Octavia has taught him that it’s best to let these things run their course.

*** * ***

The longest Octavia went without speaking to him was two full weeks. It was the first time she’d truly committed herself to a silent treatment and it’d taken days for the edge it’d set them both on to fully erode. There was static in the air for months.

It’s been two weeks since Echo has spoken to him. Most days he can barely tell whether she’s been home. If it weren’t for the rent money and the five sets of spare keys left on the island counter a few days following their confrontation, Bellamy might begin to think he’s living alone.

Two weeks turn to three, and by then he’s memorised the choreograph for their petty little dance. He’s almost proud of himself for not slipping up. And yet, he stands by his door at night when he hears her come home, hoping she’ll give him a reason to step out of line.

They need to put an end to this.

Winter break starts and three weeks turn to four.

*** * ***

“Hey Bellamy. How goes?”

“Hey Harper,” he greets in turn, sliding his key from the lock. The front door’s been fixed, just in time for Christmas. He’d call it a miracle, but that’d be giving Volkov too much credit. Walking towards the mailboxes, he smiles at the blonde, “Nothing much, you? Thought you guys were headed to your dad’s.”

“Yeah, we leave tomorrow. Monty didn’t want to leave the interns alone too long,” she smiles, leaning against the wall to watch him. “What about you? When’s Octavia land?”

“What? Didn’t I tell you guys she was staying on for second semester? She’s spending the break in Spain.”

“Oh, yeah. No, yeah you did. You did. I just thought that with Echo having moved out that plans might have changed,” Harper drawls, words slowing as she registers Bellamy’s expression. “I—you, hm. You didn’t know.”

“Echo’s... gone…?”

The words feel strange on his tongue. There’s a noticeable break in communication deep down in his brain as his expression shifts uncertainly from confusion to surprise to confusion. Too many thoughts register at once.

“That’s what I gathered, though it doesn’t seem like her not to tell you. Maybe I got it wrong,” Harper says, frowning.

“Oh, it seems very much like her,” Bellamy snaps, slamming the mailbox door shut. He makes for the stairs, paying no mind to the pregnant woman waddling up after him. There’s a part of him that needs to see it to believe it, and another that thinks it’s all an elaborate joke. A joke they’re all in on.

“Bellamy?”

“Sorry, Harper, I just gotta,”—he looks over his shoulder and sees her struggling to keep up. Cursing under his breath, he retraces his steps and puts a hand around her back. “Are you sure?”

“Well I was. Now I’m confused.”

“Join the queue, Mrs Green,” he replies, pushing his messenger bag out from between them as he grabs hold of her. Together they begin to take the stairs a bit faster than she could on her own.

“Why wouldn’t she tell you? I don’t get it.”

“Echo hasn’t told me anything in weeks,” he admits, glancing down at her. “We had a fight, disagreement,  _thing_ … She gave copies of the keys to people I don’t know, I chewed her out over it, she returned the keys but stopped talking to me. Basically has avoided me ever since Monty dropped off the antibiotics.”

“Oh,”—it dawns on her how long ago that was— “Have you spoken to her?”

  
“What?”

“Did you try talking with her I mean,” she huffs, holding her hand up to indicate a timeout. Bellamy glances up the stairs, then down at Harper’s very red face.

“No, I—she’s been avoiding me,” he replies.

“Maybe you should text her? It could just be a misunderstanding.”

“Harper, I have nothing to say to her, especially if she’s…”

As soon as the words fall from his mouth the realisation hits him like a tone of bricks. All this time he thought he was following her lead but maybe, maybe it was him? He thinks back to the few times their paths have crossed, notices some semblance of a pattern.

Bellamy looks down at his pregnant—very pregnant—friend, and frowns.

“Maybe she thought you didn’t want her to stay,” the blonde says, offering him a sad smile. It’s all the warning he gets before she starts climbing once again.

“That’s just childish,” he scoffs, dismissing the idea altogether. Yet, the words linger at the forefront of his brain.   _You’ll be gone by then_.  “Echo’s straightforward, or at least she used to be.”

“I noticed that, yes. Takes a while getting used to it at first,” Harper chuckles. Her smile  wavers, expression sad. “Although she tries to lie sometimes. She was very polite about Monty’s kimchi despite it being near inedible.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” he smiles, glancing towards the top of the stairs.

  
“I’ll manage the rest. Go,” Harper says, trying to shake him off.

Bellamy hesitates, but acquiesces, taking the remaining six steps two at a time. There’s a part of him that’s expecting this to be an elaborate ruse. He turns the key in the lock and pushes open the door, pausing at the threshold. Nothing jumps out at him.

Setting his bag down, he doesn’t bother to shut the door.

“Echo?”

On the kitchen island there are six envelopes labelled—December, January, February, March, April, May—and a set of keys. Without the panda keychain they don’t look like her keys.

“Echo?”

Bellamy checks the bedroom, finding every trace of her gone. The same can be said for the bathroom and the fridge. He’s riffling through cupboards when Harper waddles in. He looks at her for guidance, then glances towards the envelopes, watching as the blonde examines them.

“Rent paid through to May,” he says, leaning back against the fridge.

“Call her, Bellamy.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, reaching for her lower back and popping her spine. “Why don’t you come over for dinner in about”—she looked at her phone— “Let’s say 7:30? Monty should be home by then and I’m cooking.”

“Should you be?”

“I’m pregnant, not dead,” she snaps. Turning on her heel, she waves her mail overhead, keys jingling in her hand, “You have no idea how much maternity sucks, Bellamy Blake. Call Echo and come over for dinner.”

*** * ***

Monty walks him to the door after dinner, thanking him for helping with the dishes. It’s as polite of a dismissal as any, but Bellamy has no complaints. The dread of returning to an empty apartment strikes somewhere between 3B and 3C. By the time he reaches the door of 3E he has to talk himself into going in.

After a long shower, Bellamy turns on the television and cracks open his first beer. When he finishes his fourth, his thumb keeps sliding over the screen of his phone. Channel surfing proves futile until he lands on Attack of the Clones. It’s an hour in and his least favourite prequel, but he leaves it on and gets his fifth beer. Echo’s tastes in films suck. Star Trek is so much better than this shit. Twenty minutes pass and he’s scrolling through food delivery apps, missing the smell of fast food that usually accompanies these late night movie marathons. He’s missed it for a long time.

Closing the apps, Bellamy throws his phone onto the couch and goes to the fridge for a sixth beer. Upon finding there are none left, he peers into the cupboard over the microwave and finds a bottle of whiskey. It’s the bottle Nathan Miller brought back from Scotland last year, and it’s some of the shittiest alcohol he’s ever had. Beggars can’t be choosers however. He fishes a tumbler out from a cupboard and returns towards the couch. Along the way he gathers the envelopes from the island counter and drops them onto the coffee table. Maybe he’ll use the money to get himself to Spain and surprise Octavia on Christmas day. Is she even in Spain or is she travelling somewhere else with friends? Maybe he should call and ask.

*** * ***

“—At least episode three doesn’t suck as much as two,” he drawls after the tone. He points at the television emphatically, drink in hand. “I mean, not that I give a shit about the prequels anyway…” Yet, he gets distracted by the fight scene on screen, forgetting the phone pressed to his ear.

The tone sounds and the call drops.

Bellamy huffs. Well, that’s the last time he’ll take Harper’s advice. In fact, all of this is stupid. For the first time in weeks he can relax in his own living room without Echo skittering about. The rent is paid through to May and he’s got nothing to worry about, really. It’s great. Everything is great. Everything is awesome. Everything is cool when you’re part of a team—

“Yeah, living the dream. I’ll drink to that,” he cheers. These funky lego animations are cool, and he’s not too sure what’s happening, but it’s not like he’s watching it for the plot anyway. Except, when you don’t understand what is going on, it’s not fun. Within twenty minutes, he changes the channel. He changes it again and again and again.

Pretty soon his alcohol-addled brain catches on to the fact that there’s nothing to watch. He turns the television off and sits up. The whiskey and beer slosh about his insides, or so it feels. The kitchen sink is as good as the bathroom sink and much, much closer. It’s maybe even easier to wash puke down the drain from here.

“You’re drunk, Bellamy. Go to bed,” he tells himself, forehead pressed against the cool granite countertop. The fun part of being drunk is coming to its end, and the last thing he wants is to face the music. The whole point was to drink so that he didn’t have to deal with his thoughts in the first place.

*** * ***

“You alright, Bellamy?”

No. No, he’s not. He’s willing the blinds to shut themselves and for the headache to fuck off, but telekinesis isn’t within his capabilities. Instead, he throws an arm over his eyes and groans.

“How much did you drink anyway?”

“I don’t know, O. Too much, obviously,” he slurs the last word. His arm feels so heavy and it’d be so easy to just let it drop. In an attempt to keep himself awake, he tries to get a bit more proactive.

“What time is it there?”

Bellamy makes a valiant effort to keep the conversation going, but his heart isn’t into it. He manages to get out of bed and close the blinds. As soon as his head hits the pillow, he’s fast asleep, receiver slipping from his grip. Octavia will forgive him eventually but he’ll never live it down.

*** * ***

“Bellamy?”

Startled and disoriented, Bellamy sits up too suddenly. A wave of nausea washes over him, but he keeps it down. Dehydration rears its ugly head, the pounding in his head unbearable. The digital clock on the nightstand indicates it’s 17:54.

“Bellamy?”

“Hm, mm? Yeah, yeah, in here,” he responds, untangling himself from the sheets. The apartment feels far too cold—the result of his tampering with the radiators in his drunken, overheated stupor.

The door to his bedroom opens, flooding it in artificial light.

“Well that explains a lot,” Raven says, folding her arms.

Bellamy squints in her direction, “FuckyouwantReyes.”

“Just checking to see if you’re still alive,” she responds, leaning against the threshold. He can’t see her expression or make sense of the tone in her voice—or whether there even is one to make sense of.

“I tried calling you ten times when you didn’t show.”

“Show?” Bellamy feels around for his phone, vividly remembering a conversation he had moments ago. “Battery’s dead,” he announces, the screen unresponsive.

“Figured. You want to come out here and pretend to be human for a while? Can’t talk sense into a half-naked man,”—at that, Bellamy pats the bed— “Been there done that, Blake. Not impressed. Get dressed. It’s fucking freezing in here.”

*******

“What did I miss?”

“Aside from my birthday? Nothing much,” Raven says, leaning over one of the radiators.

Bellamy does the same, a bone-deep shiver threatening to topple him over, but doesn’t miss a beat, “Your birthday’s in March.”

“Yeah, but it must have been someone’s birthday,” she says, eyeing the bottles on the coffee table. The third radiator gets tweaked, and she leans into it for heat. It’s only then he notices she’s still wearing her coat.

“Nah, just”—he shrugs, making for the faucet. The only way for this hangover to subside is if he starts hydrating. He turns on the stream and shudders at its icy temperature. The jolt wakes him up a little, “End of semester. Echo left without a word. Kind of needed to”

“—go on a bender, clearly,” she interjects. “You could’ve called, you know.”

“Didn’t want to bother you and Finn,” “—Finn and I are over.” “—Oh.” Bellamy glances over at her, tinkering with the water temperature. He squints at Raven, “Since when?”

“Five days ago,” she replies. “It was a long time coming though, but yeah, that happened.”

Bellamy leans over to drink from the faucet stream. He takes many gulps before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, then turns the water off.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did, just not to you I guess. You’ve been kind of out of it lately though, so you know,”—she shrugs— “Is this about O not coming home?”

Bellamy mirrors Raven by perching over one of the radiators and folds his arms, shrugging.

“Words, Bellamy Blake,” she urges, clicking her tongue. “I’ve got enough decoding to do with Echo, I really don’t need you to take a page from her book.”

“You know where she is?”

“Wait— this about Echo?”

“No. Yes. No, I don’t know. I wish O was home,” he snaps.

“Echo moved out.”

“Yeah, I just said.”

“Yeah. I mean, I know. John and Roan helped carry her stuff,” she reveals.

“Everyone knew but me?”

“Everyone? I don’t know.”

“Harper and Monty knew,” he says, still bitter.

“Oh, then, yeah, I guess,” she shrugs.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop doing that thing, just tell me,” he pleads. His headache is killing him, and he’s not in the mood to play games. Bellamy and Raven have been friends long enough that he knows when she’s setting him for an obstacle course.

“Echo’s moved in with me,” she informs him, pushing off the wall. As she walks towards him she continues, “Finn fucked off to Minnesota to be with his family and I didn’t want to spend Christmas alone. You’ve been giving her the cold shoulder for weeks, so…”

“I didn—” “You did.” “I didn’t mean to. She started it.”

“Real mature, Bellamy,” she sneers, leaning against the wall next to him.

“The least she could have done is explained or apologised. For fuck’s sake, she gave keys to everyone without even telling me,”—he gets fixed with a look— “People I don’t know,  Raven. Okay? It wouldn’t have hurt for her to at least mention it.”

“You ever see any of them?”

“No,”

“Anything go missing?”

“No. Not that I know of. What’s your point?”

“I’m not saying what she did was right, but you came down hard, Bell.”

“Fuck do you know anyway?”

“Who d’you think she turned to? She been practically living with me for two weeks now. Finn leaving just made it official.” Raven snapped back with just as much intensity, levelling him with a stare, “I’m not saying what she did was right, but you could have told her about Ilian so she’d understand where you were coming from.”

“That’s not my story to tell,”

“Yet you bring it up anyway, expecting people to figure it out. I told her, okay? I told her you weren’t comfortable with strangers because of what happened to O. Echo didn’t need me to draw a chart, she realised her mistake,”

“—Still waiting on that apology then.”

“She understood because I explained it to her, Bellamy, so cut the shit. Maybe if you’d made her understand she’d still be your flatmate,”—she pushes off the radiator— “Anyway, you missed John’s birthday. We went to that fancy place on the pier. Drinks tonight at my place, if you can be bothered. Otherwise I’ll see you at Indra’s on Christmas day.”

“Wait, Raven—”

The engineer turns on her heel, eyebrow arched.

“—I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean for things to go this way.”

“Yeah, well, everyone figured you down about Octavia being away, which is fine, but this shit with Echo? Get it sorted. She’s becoming one of my best friends and I don’t want to have to choose between you.”

“You won’t. I’ll talk to her tonight. She’ll be there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Raven?”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s Roan?”

“Come to the party and see.”

“She gave him a key.”

“Come to the party and meet him.”

*** * ***

Sobering up in under four hours is an impossible feat, but Bellamy does the best he can. If he stays dry tonight and rests tomorrow, hell be presentable come luncheon at Indra’s on Christmas Day.

When his phone pings to announce his ride’s arrival, he knocks back the last of his gatorade and steels himself for the night ahead.

*** * ***

_Like a bandaid_ , Bellamy says to himself, spotting Echo amongst the crowd. It’s a far larger turnout than he’s anticipated given the size of Raven’s apartment, but no one seems to mind the tight fit.

“Echo,” he calls out, squeezing between densely packed bodies as soon as he spots her.

“Echo, hey,” he greets her, gaze flitting across her face.

There’s glitter in her hair and sparkle across her cheeks. The deep burgundy of her lips and the charcoal lining of her eyes accentuates her natural beauty, and for a second he forgets himself. A part of him wishes to be meeting her—his best friend’s flatmate—for the first time, tonight, at this party. If he were though, he’d not know what she looks like beneath the make up. He remembers the first time they met, his gaze drawn to her bare, pillowy lips. Her hair had been rain-soaked and her mascara smeared, but she’d caught his interest from the very start. Even in all of her pneumonic glory she’d been endearing, red-rimmed eyes and voice like gravel. If he were meeting her tonight for the first time, his hands wouldn’t be this sweaty.

“Bellamy?”

“Yes! Sorry, hi. Can,”—he leans in to speak over the music and rumble of conversation— “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet? I need to speak with you.”

Echo searches his face and then scans the crowd, looking uncertain. His gaze dips to her mouth and immediately flits back up, in time to witness her nod. He follows through the crowd; he’s lost all reference points given the number of people. As they step into the hallway however, he realises where he they were headed.

The room is unfamiliar. Bellamy’s only seen it inhabited by Finn. The walls last time were covered in Finn’s drawings and framed posters. The shelves, once piled high with figurines and comic books and drawing tools, are now bare. Instead of two desks pushed against the wall, a large bed takes up the centre space. The room looks bigger than before, though with less personality. Then again, Echo has only just moved in.

“Bigger windows,” he comments, folding his arms across his chest and then dropping then. Why was he acting like a nervous school boy? There is nothing endearing about a thirty year old acting like an uncertain child. Squaring his shoulders, he thrusts his hands into his pockets. Then he remembers Echo’s comment about hidden hands meaning secrets and takes them out.

“Raven said you might come,” she says, stepping around him. The door only muffles some of the noise from the party, the banging on the walls and laughter a reminder of what is happening just outside in the hall.

“Does it bother you?”

“No. I have nothing against you, Bellamy. I’m sorry I didn’t ask or tell you about the copies,” she replies. The last time he asked her a question he’d found himself faced with a can of worms. Tonight, he isn’t going to be caught off guard. He takes a deep breath, following her with his eyes as she settles across from him, leaning against the wall.

“I overreacted,” he admits, glancing around the room. There’s a picture on the dresser he’s never seen before, but he won’t pry. Instead, he steps further into the room. “I know Raven told you about O, but it should have been me. I just… I took it personally,”—he bites on his lower lip and frowns at the hardwood floor— “It wasn’t fair, you lived there too, and…I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Bellamy. I overreacted too. It’s probably for the best though, how it turned out, what with Finn and all.”

“Yeah, about that—Actually, no. I want to know,”—he stands in front of her, leaving plenty of room between them— “Why didn’t you say? You just… left.”

“I thought it was for the best. You,”—Echo glances away, working her jaw.

Bellamy steps closer, “You what?”

“I didn’t think you’d care either way.”

_Two breaths and count to ten, Bell._

It’s important not to feel affronted.

“Even if that were true, which it isn’t, you don’t just leave without telling people, Echo,”—he furrows his brow and searches her face— “It’s not… It’s not right.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” she replies, direct and without emotion.

“Do you only deal in facts, Echo?”—at her uncertain shrug, he lets out a mirthless laugh— “It’s really daunting.”

“I’m …sorry?”

“No, that’s not how I meant it. It’s just hard to read you,” he clarifies, laughing sheepishly.

“Well I’m not a book,” she counters.

“No, you’re not, but…”—he narrows his eyes— “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

Echo tilts her head, the ghost of an impish smile on her lips.

Bellamy glances down at them once more, licking his own.

“God you’re such a bitch,” he chuckles.

“And you’re a condescending prick,” she replies, smile dropping from her face.

He holds her gaze for many seconds, licking his lower lip into his mouth, “—and Raven says we don’t use our words. Tsk.”

“I mean, she has a point,” Echo concedes. Bellamy nods in agreement, once.

“Next time we should probably use our words,” he notes.

It’s Echo’s turn to nod, though she doesn’t let him off the hook as easily as he’d hoped, “ _Mm._  Maybe you should use less though?”

“You calling me verbose?”

“Tsk. I haven’t unpacked my dictionary yet,”

“Whoa,”—he steps closer— “All that money on law school and defeated by an SAT word?”

“I’m not playing this game with you, Bellamy,” Echo says, straightening.

“What game?”

“I can’t always tell when you’re being funny or mean,” she admits.

“I,”—he hesitates, caught off guard— “I can’t tell if you’re being serious right now.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a beat, the music and laughter filtering through the closed door. Echo’s the first to look away. She squints at the window and then glances down at their feet. He’s standing so close, one more step and she’ll be corralled. He too looks down.

“I don’t know how to do this, Bellamy.”

“Do what?”

“This, whatever it is.”

He reaches to squeeze her upper arms, instinctively reacting to the way she’s folding into herself. He rubs his palms along her arms in an attempt to reassure, uncertain if he’s succeeding. Truth is, he doesn’t know what this is either, nor how to deal with it.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” he admits. When she looks up at him through her lashes, he offers her a soft smile. “We’re all over the place and it’s fucked up, but I want to fill in all the blanks. Words or not,” he whispers the last three words. He stills his hands over her elbows and tugs.

Pushing off the wall, they stand toe to toe and practically at eye-level. Bellamy cups her cheek and presses his forehead to hers. Echo slides her hand around his hip, closing her eyes. He takes in the curve of her long lashes and tips his head to the side, catching her mouth.

Echo’s lips are softer than he imagined they’d be. He pries them apart with his tongue, stepping forward and pressing her back against the wall as she yields. His fingers splay across her ear and into her hair, thumb stroking her cheek. He licks into her mouth tentatively, repeatedly.

She cups his elbow and slides her hand across the back of his arm—up and down, slow and steady. It does wonders to his body, but he steels himself against the arousal. Pulling away, he presses his forehead back to hers and keeps his eyes closed. It’s Echo’s turn to admire him, the smatter of freckles making her smile.

“Words are overrated,” he whispers, opening his eyes.

“Not always,” she replies, cupping his cheek. Much like her namesake, she echoes his last action, tilting her head in the opposite direction and pressing her lips to his. It doesn’t matter the angle, their mouth’s will fit perfectly together each time.


End file.
